


30 Day OTP Challenge

by Fancifullauren



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. First Kiss // 2. Flowers* // 3. BDSM* // 4. Meeting</p><p>Just a bunch of unconnected Montsous drabbles. A * means I made it NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Kiss

There was something vaguely intoxicating about the way Montparnasse held himself that Claquesous couldn't quite identify. Was it the way he stretched out his neck, holding his nose in the air as if to point out the fact that he was above everyone in the room? The way that he puffed out his already expansive chest, bringing further attention to his feminine hourglass figure? Or perhaps was it his feet, always positioned to look like those of a ballerina in repose? 

More than likely, it was the whiskey Claquesous had been sipping that was intoxicating him more than anything. Still, the air Montparnasse had wasn’t helping him hang onto sobriety. 

Claquesous wasn’t one to enjoy a party, but upon Babet’s insistence he had decided to attend Brujon’s get-together. It was a small one, thankfully, with no more than twenty people, all of whom the killer had met at some point or another. Even though he’d been acquainted with everyone, Sous still found solace in solitude, sticking to his spot on the couch and absently watching whatever was going on on the TV – some reality show for background noise. 

Meanwhile, Montparnasse was busy being the life of the party, chatting with everyone who dared approach him and giving them each one of his signature smiles – a devilishly charming thing that seemed to put the receiver more ill at ease than anything. Sous had no doubt that was his intention. Everything about that man oozed class at first glance. He wore fashionable clothes; today, for example, the dandy outfitted himself in a crisply pressed navy three-piece suit over a light blue shirt and patterned tie, the color of which was echoed in his artfully folded pocket square. The man possessed the poise of one born into aristocracy with manners fitting for a gentleman in a royal court. 

This illusion was only sustained insomuch as a fair distance is kept. When approached, Montparnasse could be seen for the poor thing that he truly was. His suit, while of remarkably similar color, possessed pieces of different fabric weaves, indicating that they had each belonged to a different set at some point in time. Thrift had brought them together. Beneath the thick smell of expensive stolen cologne, if one bothered to smell, one would find that the suit hadn’t been washed in quite some time, only re-ironed so as to look freshly laundered. While on paper his manners were excellent, a member of the modern-day gentry would not take long to discover that all he knew of behavior was read from a textbook, not observed and experienced firsthand. His mannerisms were dated to the point of obsolescence, which would put him in an awkward situation should he ever interact with the upper crust. Finally there was the matter of his teeth. Although a dazzling artificial pearl color, they were crooked. He couldn’t steal himself a set of braces. 

Luckily, the populace of this party was the lowest of low. Montparnasse associated himself with gutter rats and fungi that liked to grow in between the fetid toes of society. As one of those variations of fungi, Claquesous should be honored that this poseur was in his midst. In truth, he couldn’t care less about the fashion or the cologne or the overly snobbish formalities the fop so liked to employ. 

It wasn’t until Montparnasse tilted his head to look at him with those cold green eyes that Claquesous realized he’d been staring. There it was – that smirk on his plush cherry lips that drove the killer wild. At a lull in his conversation with Gueulemer (to be fair, conversation with the oaf seemed to be one extended lull), he turned the rest of his body and strode towards him. 

“Sit down,” Claquesous said. 

Montparnasse glanced down at the unoccupied space on the tattered sofa. “I’m quite alright,” replied he. “I wouldn’t want to wrinkle my suit. Just picked it up from the dry cleaner’s a few hours ago.” 

That was a lie, but the criminal decided not to dent his ego by pointing it out. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked. Like Gueulemer, conversation wasn’t Claquesous’s strong point. 

“I’m not, actually. I’m too wired to concentrate,” said Montparnasse frankly. The cause was obvious. Close inspection revealed a white residue clinging to the fine hairs in his nose. He wasn’t sure why, but it always seemed as though those bothersome manners were shed as soon as the dandy entered his presence. He was always thankful to be spared the annoying courtesies. “That’s why I came to you. A little bird told me you’d have something to help with that.” 

Slowly, Claquesous rose to his feet, keeping his tumbler of whiskey in hand. “I do,” he responded, standing close enough to speak in a murmur, “but I’m not sure I like the idea of someone going around saying I’m giving handouts.”

“No charge? You’re a gem. We’ll go somewhere private and no one’ll know.” 

Montparnasse followed Claquesous into Brujon’s bedroom. 

“You’re too polite,” said the shadow of a man as he closed the door. “Gueulemer’s a big boy. He’ll get over it if you flat-out refuse to talk to him.” 

“I like to keep a good working relationship with my team,” Montparnasse countered, taking off his jacket and hanging it neatly over the back of the desk chair. 

Sous spread out on the futon, lounging like a languorous cat. The peacock gave him a sultry smirk before settling down by him, his legs crossed. “What have you got for me?” 

The killer reached into his trench coat and took out a pair of pre-rolled joints. The smile Montparnasse gave showed the slightest hint of teeth, and Sous couldn’t help but smirk as well beneath his ski mask. He flipped the bottom of it up to put one between his own lips, and then held one out for the other man. 

They smoked in a comfortable silence for a while. Slowly, Montparnasse had relaxed, spreading out his legs and leaning against his friend. Claquesous had wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

Somewhere along the way, Sous’s eyes had fallen shut. Warm fingers trailed along his jaw, running over the stubble he’d been neglecting for the past week or so. Without thinking about it, he smiled. 

“I’ve always wondered what’s under that mask,” said Montparnasse, his voice sonorous in his ear. 

A light exhale of air through his nose stood in place of a chuckle. “Keep on wondering,” Claquesous muttered. 

Seemingly unperturbed by his rejection, Montparnasse’s fingers trailed over the bottom of his nose, tickled by his breath. “Are you handsome?” 

“I might be. Doesn’t really matter much.” 

“I’m curious.” 

“Of course you are. You’re a curious child.” 

Montparnasse was used to that. Being no older than 19, he didn’t get as much respect as some of the more seasoned criminals in the circles he ran in. Especially from his friend, he found he didn’t much mind the slight. 

Slowly, the ruffled peacock raised the last of the joint to Claquesous’s thick lips. They pursed around it. Montparnasse loved that – watching the man suck in his high. He took it away. Sous held the smoke in his lungs, his tongue coming out to run over his lips before his breath came out like a lazy volcano seeping a cloud of smoke. 

Before Claquesous knew what he was doing, he’d leaned in to press his plump brown lips to Montparnasse’s red ones. Calm and hazy, he felt the younger man melt into him. The criminal cupped his freshly-shaven face, loving the way it fit in his hand. Their lips moved in slow tandem after that. They took their time exploring each other, savoring the sensations, inhaling and exhaling the moment that seemed to stretch on for hours. When Sous finally pulled away, the dandy was on him, desperate to close the distance he’d made between them. 

Neither man could say for certain when their kisses ended. They tapered off gradually until they sat in a serene stillness, falling asleep in each other’s warmth. 

 

\----

 

Didn't revise this. Long hair don't care. Yolo. xoxo


	2. Flowers*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made it NSFW because I’m trash. I made it canon era because I can.

Fingertips ran over a rose. They were clad in thick black leather; as such the owner could only imagine how silky the blood red petals would feel against his bare skin. What he could sense, though, was its beauty. It was just beginning to bloom, folding out and revealing a handsome dark rouge where the shadows were cast, between where the petals met. When he closed his eyes, the creature of the night could smell the delicate fragrance. He preferred that to the garish colognes his own Montparnasse liked to wear so much, but he wouldn’t say that to him, lest he offend his secretly fragile sense of self. 

He brought it up to his mouth, closing his eyes to better savor the tender feeling of petals like fine velvet. When his mouth brushed against it, Claquesous couldn’t help but think that it resembled the softness of his sweet lover’s lips, pressed ever so gently against his own. Its faint scent was even lovelier up close. He brought it further up until his nose was surrounded by the aroma. The air around him was so warm and the leather chair beneath him so comfortable that he nearly forgot that he was naked save for his gloves and boots. 

Montparnasse’s lips were pressed to something darker, warmer, but just as soft as the rose his lover kissed. Though under the influence of nothing but lust – though perhaps an argument could be made for love – the dandy thought time seemed to be moving slower than usual. He was more than pleased with that. The tip of Claquesous’s cock was something he could worship for hours. There was a pillow beneath his knees to comfort him, and sitting on his heels meant he could stay there as long as he so pleased. The end of a pink tongue came out to languidly lick from the slit up to where the tip ended like a downturned rose petal. A sigh from Claquesous brought a smile to his lips. His tongue swirled around him once, twice, and then the head was taken into his mouth to suck on lightly.

While by nature an impatient man, Claquesous wasn’t in any rush to force Montparnasse to give him more friction. The gentle massage of his tongue was enough to keep him satisfied for quite some time. He took a deep breath through his nose, completely engulfing his olfactory nerves in the perfume. 

Montparnasse was aware of a hand slipping into his hair. There was no pulling, not yet, but the promise alone excited him. Ever eager to please, the petty thief took another inch into his mouth and let out a sinful moan. As a reward Claquesous’s fingers massaged his scalp, which in turn relaxed the younger man even further and drew a pleased sigh from his nose. He drew off his member slowly. In response to a little tug to his hair, he took him in again, this time an inch further. 

The love they made lasted several long minutes before Claquesous, nose buried in the rose’s silken petals, was finding release in his throat. The rose of a man pulled off of him, but not before pressing his wet lips to the tip. 

Claquesous set the rose on the side table in order to get dressed. First were his smallclothes, followed by his shirtsleeve, his waistcoat, trousers, coat, and finally his dark jacket that reached the floor. Montparnasse had remained clothed for the affair, save for the top hat that the rose had been placed next to. Standing, Sous took the hat from the table and put it on Montparnasse’s hair, which he’d slicked back into place after licking the cum from his lips. He picked up the rose with his bare hand. 

Gently, Sous took it from him. “Allow me,” said he, putting it back in his buttonhole. After it had been situated, he took the liberty of straightening his jacket and shirt underneath. “There you are. Pretty as a rose.” 

“Prettier, I should think,” argued Montparnasse, lifting an eyebrow. 

The dark man couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you jealous of a flower?” 

“No,” he said, crossing his arms and sticking his nose in the air. 

“I should hope not,” Claquesous replied. “That flower will wither and die before the sun rises. But even as it sets tomorrow and rises the next day, and does the same every day for half a century, you will still be pretty.” 

Admittedly, Montparnasse was flattered, though he dared not show it. “What makes you think I will still be pretty in half a century? I’ll be old and wrinkled and decrepit. That’s hardly pretty.” 

“It’s exquisite,” argued the other man. “Your eyes will still be that striking green, your cheek will still be warm against my chest, and your lips will still be soft as a petal. My sweet, you will be beautiful until you let out your last breath, _ma petite fleur_.” 

“And then?” 

“And then you’ll be remembered for how beautiful you were.” 

Montparnasse almost seemed content with that. “I don’t want to think about it.” 

“Then don’t. You are young. You are fresh. There are other things that require your more immediate attention.” 

“Such as?” 

“This.” The killer touched his cheek and coaxed him into a kiss. 

Montparnasse’s eyes remained lidded even as Claquesous pulled away. “Think about that on your walk home, you beautiful thing. Now go – I don’t need you staying here longer than you have to. I might get used to having a pretty thing around the room if you linger and I won’t want to let you part.” 

Montparnasse stole another kiss from him before turning on his heel and striding out the door.


	3. BDSM*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this because I am a terrible person. Read this as a more responsible alternative to seeing the movie-that-must-not-be-named.

The last thing Montparnasse saw was Claquesous looming over him before the blindfold was secured over his eyes. 

With one sense eliminated, it felt as though the others were heightened. Cold leather fingertips dragged along his skin, leaving fine hair standing on end in their wake as all of Montparnasse's nerves stood at attention. The moves were impossible to anticipate - what started on his stomach moved up to his chest, then his shoulders, his neck. His toes curled into the soft comforter with the excitement of it all. His head was resting on the plushest pillows in the home, and his body completely comfortable on a freshly laundered towel, but the promise of pain lingered in the air like the faint smell of cologne. 

While usually a composed and dignified man, the man reveled in checking all sense of pride at the bedroom door. Bossing criminals around all day was entirely draining; sometimes all he needed was a bit of a beating to put him back at peace. 

All of a sudden there was a whisper in his ear: _“You’d better behave.”_ A stray wisp of breath made its way into his ear, causing the young man to shiver. Claquesous’s laugh was deep, _terrifying._ Montparnasse would do anything to hear more.

He felt a hand spreading out across his chest, touching him tenderly as more leather pressed against his lips. The dandy hummed as the riding crop’s tip was dragged against the sensitive red skin. 

A shout erupted from those lips as he felt the sudden pinch on his nipple. 

The man only clamped down harder. “Did I say you could make noise?” 

“I’m sorry,” Montparnasse said. 

Unrelenting, Claquesous twisted it, causing the peacock’s mouth to fall noiselessly open. “Excuse me?” God, there it was – that commanding tone that melted Montparnasse. 

“I’m sorry sir,” corrected the man. All of a sudden the pinching was gone, much to his chagrin.

A few moments passed in silence. Montparnasse dared not speak up and beg for more contact, fearing he’d be denied that pleasure should he ask for it. He felt the bed shifting on his left, then his right… and then there was warmth at his mouth, causing him to gasp. On instinct, his tongue came out to give it a teasing flick followed by a more satisfying lap that covered the entire head. He swirled around it over and over, doing everything he could to draw a noise out of the man with his limited arsenal of tricks considering the position he was in. The flesh moved forward; Montparnasse took the hint and opened his mouth wider to accommodate him. 

Finally he heard a noise other than the shifting of the sheets as the first inch or so of Claquesous’s prick began pushing in and pulling out of him. “Your face is very pretty, chaton. Your lips look so good wrapped around my cock. If only you could see this.” 

Oh, to have a mirror in front of him so he could see just how good he looked sucking off the thick brown cock, his thick cherry lips wrapped around him beneath the man looming over him – the mere thought of it made him moan around his member. 

All of a sudden the member was ripped from his mouth. He heard the slap before he felt it, hot and stinging on his cheek. “Don’t make a sound,” spat Claquesous. 

Montparnasse was about to tell him he wouldn’t, but at the last minute he caught himself and instead nodded, opening his mouth again. 

He didn’t get what he wanted. “Look at you; you’re so thirsty for me. Do you want this, baby? Do want me to fuck your face and use you like the good-for-nothing whore you are?” The man tugged his hair. “Well, do you?” 

“Yes sir,” he whispered. 

“What was that?”

“Yes sir, _please_ sir, please – I want y—“ he was cut off when the man entered him again, this time going deeper into his throat. Montparnasse gagged so hard it brought tears to his eyes, but the only thing that bothered him was the fact that the blindfold prevented Claquesous from being able to lick the tears from his cheeks. Sous seemed to enjoy the gagging, though, judging by the fact that he’d continually press against the back of his tongue. Wanting nothing more than to bring the man above him pleasure, Montparnasse sucked as well as he could. 

Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, Sous took his wet cock away from his mouth. The bed shifted once more. “Turn over,” he heard, followed by the snapping of metal. Montparnasse obeyed by spreading himself out on his stomach. 

Metal handcuffs tightened around each of his wrists in turn, followed by his ankles. They were probably police-issued at some point, but they had to do away with them because a thief had made off with four pair and their only key in the night. At least they were put to good use. When he pulled against them, he found them to be a bit too tight, too unrelenting – not that he minded at all. The cool leather of the riding crop was running against him again, this time going down his spine and into the cleft of his ass. His back arched, seeking more contact. 

A sudden slap on his ass sent his hips thrusting back into the bed. “ _More,_ ” he begged. His request was granted with another smack, then another. 

“How’s that, harlot?” 

He managed to choke out: “I want more. Harder… Sir.” 

Claquesous smacked him relentlessly until he was warm and stinging from his ass to his thighs; Montparnasse knew there would be beautiful red marks there for hours to come. His eyes had been clamped shut and the young man had taken to sobbing out, the tears now flowing freely from his eyes and dampening the cloth right in front of him. He’d bit down on his lip so hard he’d begun to taste the metallic flavor of blood on his tongue. 

“You want me to fuck you.” 

“Yes!” He cried. There was another smack, this one harder than the rest against his sensitive skin. He took in a shaky breath. “Yes, sir.” 

The restraints around his ankles were removed so his legs could be spread until he could start to feel the burning stretch behind his knees. He arched his back, trying his best to present his ass to Claquesous given his position. 

There it was again – that beautifully dark chuckle that sent a shiver down Montparnasse’s spine. “Who are you?” 

“I am Montparnasse,” said he, and was rewarded with a slick finger pressing inside of him. 

Sous tsk-ed. “You are not,” he argued. “Tell me what you are.” 

The finger didn’t do much to stretch him, but it felt amazing as it pushed past his entrance to massage him from the inside. “I—“ he took a second to gasp as he felt it hit his prostate. “I’m a slut.” 

The first finger drew out. Two moved inside of him to take its place, pumping slowly. “Whose slut?” 

“Your slut, sir,” Montparnasse moaned, desperate to keep the friction going. “I’m your slut and I want you. I want your cock so bad, sir. Please.” He took in a sharp intake of breath as his prostate was hit again. “ _Please._ ”

Claquesous rubbed against him harder, with more direct force against that spot that made his pretty little pet squirm beneath him. For what felt like far too long, those deliciously thick fingers tortured him, taking their time in opening him up and making him writhe around on the sheets, though the second they were gone the peacock felt as though they’d been taken away too soon. 

But God, what they were replaced with made it all worth it. He let out a shout as Claquesous entered him, stretching him with his delightful thickness. The two fingers hadn’t stretched him out quite enough, but the pain mixed with the pleasure his cock gave him was the best thing he could possibly imagine. His hips set an unrelenting pace that pounded that sweet spot inside of him with every thrust. Sous had all but lost control by that point – Montparnasse could hear him grunting and groaning like an animal fucking him raw. It was all for him, too. He knew how much the dark man lusted after his body and loved how aggressive he was in taking what he wanted. 

It felt too good for words; his pleading melted into incomprehensible fragments of sounds, then finally wordless moaning as he was taken. The dandy came first, finishing between the towel and his stomach. Claquesous kept up his unforgiving thrusts until he spilled his load inside of him with a low grunt. 

Sous slumped down over him, still letting out the occasional moan and rubbing down the lines of his body. Gradually the handcuffs became uncomfortable around his wrists. Breathing in the stale air in front of his face became bothersome as well, so he squirmed around a bit beneath him. Claquesous pulled out. 

It left the bottom man feeling exposed and open; there was an empty feeling he didn’t like, but he supposed he’d have to wait to fix that until later that night when Sous would wake up horny after a few hours and press his erection to his ass in lieu of proper foreplay. That wouldn’t be for quite a while, though, and so he supposed he would just have to enjoy the sweet relief of having his hands freed and the red marks left along his wrists blessed with gentle kisses. Finally he could feel strong fingers working at his blindfold until cool air hit his damp skin. He let out a quiet hum and smiled up at the dark man. 

Sous’s clean hand wiped away the dampness from his eyes; each eyelid was then given a kiss in turn. 

The man disappeared into the bathroom for a minute. Montparnasse took the opportunity to relax, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Yes, Claquesous had just used him as a fucktoy, but in return he’d gotten that sweet release of not being in control for once in his life. 

The masked killer regarded him with a smile when he returned, a warm washcloth in hand. Montparnasse’s eyes fell closed as it cleaned off his forehead, his stomach, his flaccid cock. Claquesous put the washcloth and the towel in the laundry hamper before finally returning to bed, pulling the covers over the both of them. 

“You were very good,” said the older man. This was another reason Montparnasse loved these sessions: he rarely ever got praise from him, save for on these occasions. 

In his true fashion, though, Montparnasse remained arrogant. “I was better than good.” 

“Excellent.” 

“That’s more like it.” 

Montparnasse felt warm as Claquesous wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He tucked his head under his chin, inhaling the strong smell of sweat and sex that still clung to him. The ruffled dandy fell asleep to the feeling of a warm hand rubbing his back in soft, slow circles.


	4. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claquesous and Montparnasse meet for the first time.

“Can I have one?” 

Claquesous looked down at the little thing that had asked him the question. His physique suggested that he was no older than six years old, but that was likely due to stunted growth brought about by malnutrition. The creature’s face was shaped gaunt like a boy of nine or ten. 

The man shifted his attention to the bit of unlit paper between his fingers. “Aren’t you a bit young for a smoke?” Asked the teen. 

“I’m a bit young for a lot of the things I do,” pressed the boy as he reached his grubby hand out in pursuit of the pack of cigarettes. 

Claquesous held it just out of reach. “Scram, kid. Go steal some food or something useful. You don’t need this shit.” 

Apparently Claquesous had underestimated him – the second his back was turned, he felt a sharp pain in his shin. The cigarettes were snatched from his hand as soon as he doubled over to inspect the area that’d just been kicked. “You little fuck! Get back here!” 

But just like that, the boy was gone. All Claquesous could sense of him was the sound of footsteps echoing off the alley walls. It was too dark to clearly see him, but Sous decided to pursue him on foot anyway. The creature of the night had never depended on vision primarily anyway. 

Around buildings and through tight alleys the pair ran. Why Sous continued he couldn’t be sure – was the pack of cigarettes really that important to him? No, but the principle of having his shit stolen by a little boy bothered him more than losing the cigarettes themselves. The boy was quick, he’d give him that, but Claquesous had longer legs and a full belly on his side as he chased after the gamin. It wasn’t five minutes before he’d clamped his hand around the other’s bony wrist and wrung it until he dropped the cigarettes. 

“Stop it!” He hissed, stamping on Claquesous’s boot with his naked foot. “That hurts!” 

“Should have thought about that before you nicked my cigs, you little shit,” growled the young man, twisting it harder. 

It happened too quickly for Claquesous to be able to react. One moment he had a firm hold on the boy, the next there was a long slice splitting his hand open. He cried out. “What the fuck!” 

This little thing had sliced him! He spat in fury. “Fine!” He shouted, letting go.

The boy stepped back. “I’ll take that cigarette now,” he demanded, holding his hand out. 

Incredulous, the teen stared at the younger creature. “You’ve got to be shitting me. I’m not giving you shit.” 

“I’ll stab you,” warned the boy, holding the knife in front of him and poising himself to strike like a viper. 

He huffed. “Fine, I’ll give you a damn smoke if it’ll get you to stop bothering me,” said Claquesous. He produced a cigarette from the pack and handed it to the boy. 

The gamin leaned against the wall. “Got a light?” 

“Yeah.” 

Claquesous lit the other’s, then his own. The rough feeling of smoke in his lungs took his attention away from the stinging shallow on his hand. 

“The name’s Montparnasse, by the way.” 

“I didn’t ask.” 

“No, but you were curious.” How could such a young, stupidly rash thing get a spot-on estimation of Claquesous’s thoughts?” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were.” 

He was. This boy was unlike anything he’d seen – most would run to preserve their life once they’d been released, but not this one. This one demanded a cigarette once more, the thing that’d gotten him into the mess in the first place. That kind of blind bravery, outright confidence in the face of danger was something he liked to see in an ally. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“And yours?” 

“Not telling you mine.” 

“Something I can call you, then?” 

The teen shrugged. “Some call me Claquesous.” 

“That’s not a name,” complained Montparnasse. 

“No, it’s not, but I told you I wasn’t gonna give you a name. It’s something to call me.” 

“I’ll call you ‘Sous.” 

Claquesous rolled his eyes. He’d had enough of this from his annoying gang; he didn’t need it from little gamins. “You aren’t calling me Sue.” 

The boy puffed out his chest and took a pull from his cigarette, then exhaled without so much as a sputter. “I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.” 

Sous gave a nod. “I like you.” 

“Wish I could say the feeling’s mutual,” said Montparnasse. Even as he looked up at the dark, frightening man, though, there was a hint of admiration in his eyes – the start of something new.


End file.
